95 吀栀e Cartographer Violet Oliver By the ordinance of His Majesty, you have been tasked with the creation of an atlas of the known world and a description of its inhabitants. For seven years, the Cartographer cataloged old towns and new cities, the soft scratching of his pen sending an echo across the dusty, oak-wood shelves of the library. This town was founded one hundred and thirty-nine years ago, that one, one hundred and seventy-two. This one specialized in wheat production, that one barley. If he did report inaccurate information, would anyone notice? The king seemed oblivious to his own kingdom, never mind foreign ones. Sometimes during his work, there were eventful days, like when the butler spilled his morning tea, or the cat sauntered in to say hello. But boredom is a powerful force, and eventually even the Cartographer could not resist succumbing to its will. ■ ■ ■ There is dust everywhere. It wasn’t a particularly sophisticated observation, but it was an important one. Nothing has disturbed the dust for seven years, perhaps longer. The king had never traveled to foreign places, nor had the Cartographer ever seen him pick up a book to learn about them. Only by illustrating these towns will I bring them into existence for the king. He paused and thought, I don’t catalog cities; I create them. His pen quivered. A curious hand turned the page in the atlas. His reference map drifted slowly to the 昀氀oor. A bold line leapt out onto the virgin paper. His quest to document the world of his imagination had begun. In this world he was a mere cartographer, but in the